Could I Haff a Vord?
by Madrigal
Summary: A _Goblet of Fire_ "fill-in." What went on in that conversation between Viktor Krum and Hermione at the end of Book 4? H/V.


**Disclaimer:** You know the drill by now, right?  Not mine, wish it were.  Especially Viktor.  He's so sweet and misunderstood.

**Details: **Set in Book 4.  Pairing: H/V.  Rating: G, but maybe a little angsty.  You decide.

**A/N:** This piece is intended to serve as a Goblet of Fire "fill-in."  At the end of the book, Rowling gives us Viktor walking up to Hermione and asking for a word, but doesn't tell us anything other than the conversation was short and Hermione wouldn't talk about it afterwards.  Being that I'm a big fan of Hermione and Viktor together, I decided I couldn't let that stand.  So here's what _I _think happened in those couple minutes Rowling left out.

My first HP fanfic – can't say whether more will come, but we'll see after I finish Order of the Phoenix.  Eeep!

P.S. - Forgive inconsistencies in Viktor's accent; I haven't got my copy of GoF handy.

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**_"Could I Haff a Vord?"_**

They walked together silently for a moment.  Viktor could feel Ron Weasley's eyes on his back as they moved away from the group of Gryffindors; perhaps there was no hiding from that suspicious glare, but at least they could escape earshot.  

Glancing over, he noticed that Hermione was walking quickly, with purpose - with impatience?  What little confidence he had been able to muster was beginning to fade; he knew what was being whispered about him in the halls of Hogwarts, but he had been able to convince himself that it didn't matter, that Hermione knew the truth.

Now, looking at her carefully neutral expression, he wasn't so sure anymore.

Hermione slowed her step and turned to face him; her eyes fixed on his expectantly, and Viktor felt his stomach drop.  He had worried that this conversation wouldn't be easy, and it was shaping up to be even worse than he'd feared.  He licked his lips nervously.  "I am sorry to take you avay from your friends," he began, "but I haff seen very little of you lately."

"Yes, well," she replied hastily, her tone unreadable, "Harry needed a great deal of support after ..."  She cast her glance down for a moment, nudged a tuft of grass with the tip of her shoe; "... after the way the tournament ended."

She was nervous.  It was making him nervous.  "Of course - I understand," he said quickly.  "I just mean ... I haff been vanting to speak vith you for some time, but haff not had the chance."

"I'm here now," she said, raising her eyes to his again.  It was impossible to tell whether this was an invitation, or a rebuke; but he felt sure that her gaze flickered over his shoulder, back to the spot where her friends were standing.  He shifted self-conciously, tried to block Hermione from the Gryffindors' view with the bulk of his body; he couldn't bear to think of them watching as he botched this conversation.  _All wrong_, he berated himself inwardly; _you're doing this all wrong, and you're losing her!_

_No, _intoned another, more resigned part of his mind; _she was never yours to lose._

It was true.  The Yule Ball had been like another world, a few hours of bliss so perfect that he hadn't been able to stop himself from wanting – from allowing himself to think that there _could be _– more.  But after the Second Task, when he had braved humiliation to tell her how he felt, she'd brushed him aside.  It was even worse than an outright rejection, that passing manner in which she'd acknowledged him even as she hurried towards Harry and Ron.  Didn't she see?  All the fame and fortune hadn't helped him at all – had hurt him, in fact, as he tried to learn to relate to others.  How could she not know how hard that had been, to tell her how he felt?  Him – Viktor.  Not Krum, the world-famous Seeker, the Durmstrang Champion.  Just himself, the scared and shy eighteen-year-old … kid, really.  Just Viktor.

In Quidditch, there was skill.  Though Viktor trained hard, he always understood  that his opponent might be stronger or faster, more deserving of the win; and for that reason he had never resented losing, had never let it make him angry or bitter – had never let it make him afraid.  He remained patient; he was talented, and his career would be long and rewarding.  He was still young.  It was only a matter of time.

But this … there was no skill, no tactics to be learned, no feints or dives or anything sure to impress or earn applause.  The Golden Snitch was tricky, but always governed by laws Viktor understood: physics, however magically enhanced, was logical enough.  But Hermione, as sensible and well-read as she was – he didn't understand her.  And he felt sure he'd never be a champion at this – at knowing how to talk to her.  At winning her heart.

"I …"  He became aware that he had allowed the silence to stretch too long.  He should be speaking … she'd grow impatient with him and turn away, return to her friends, become just another person in the crowd of strangers – the crowd from which she'd first emerged in the Top Box at the World Cup.  He had noticed her then, and her face tugged at the corners of his mind for a long time afterwards.  He felt sure he needed to know this girl – it was as if he had no choice in the matter.

Thinking of it now, he realized: he was clumsy, and awkward, and had little skill – but he had to try.  His teammates, his classmates and even his parents had remarked on how subdued he'd been following the loss at the World Cup … but he'd barely heard them through his regret, through wishing he'd been able to simply walk up to the brown-haired girl and ask her name.  He had to try now; if he didn't, he'd never be able to forget her.  It had taken him weeks to stop thinking of her the first time, and that had been before he had ever heard her laughing at some poor joke he'd made, before he'd ever threaded his arm around her waist and led her across a dance floor.

"I vas vanting to say …"  He wanted to say so many things, and they all came crowding into his mind now; thoughts shouldered thoughts, warring for his attention.  "I vas vanting you to know …"

Her face, which had seemed so frozen and indecisive a moment ago, softened as his own embarrassment became apparent.  She even took a step towards him.  "Viktor," she said gently, "if you're worried about what happened in the hedge maze – if you're worried about what I think about it …"  

He couldn't breathe.  The weight of his world was suddenly balanced upon her next words.

An brief, kind light flickered in her eyes, and she spoke quickly.  "… You needn't be.  I've heard what the others are saying, but I know it's not true."  

His throat was dry, but he managed to croak out a response.  "Then … you are believing me, that I vas never meaning to harm Diggory?  To harm anyone?"

"You were under the Imperius Curse," she replied simply, a slight raising of her shoulders casually shrugging off any insinuations to the contrary.  "And I know you're no Death Eater.  That's just ridiculous – people at this school are just far too fond of gossip.  And they'll believe anything they hear."

He could almost feel the breeze pick up and catch his slackened sails.  "But you are not like them," he said softly, evenly, without stammering.

She colored sightly.  "No," she said, lowering her eyes and turning her glance aside, "I suppose that's true."

Emboldened by her faint smile, he reached out and took her small hand in his gangly one.  "If you are less than certain," he said, "then take my vord.  I haff never met anyone like you."

Her flush deepened; she was clearly becoming embarrassed, but she did not break his hold on her hand, or pull away from him.  "Viktor," she sighed, although he could not tell whether her tone was pleased or sad.

"Hermy-own-ninny," he pressed on, though he hated himself for his mispronunciation of her name; "vat I haff said to you this year … none of it has changed for me."

"But so much else has changed," she protested quietly, refusing to look up at him. "And there's no telling what's going to happen now ..."

Suddenly he realized how stupid he had been; everyone was afraid now, hearing the whispered news that the Dark Lord had returned.  But for her, the fear was nearer – Harry had fought him, become The Boy Who Lived twice over, and carried his scars home to be tended by those who loved him.  Hermione, although she was all things to Viktor, was only human after all – and all that had happened in the last few days had ony made her that much more susceptible to pain and grief and fear.

Not like him.  For some reason he found that he feared the Dark Lord less than most; perhaps his contempt for Karkaroff had led him to the conclusion that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had only grown powerful on the toadying of cowards and fools.  His life at Durmstrang had taught him nothing if not to control his fear; and though he had paid little attention during Dark Arts, he had tried to learn all he could there.  He would not end his days like his headmaster, as some dark wizard's pawn.

But Hermione was different; she had never really seen the power and allure of dark magic – nor even the true depth of its destructiveness, its cruelty.  Though it was perhaps the safest place in the wizarding world, Hogwarts and its well-intentioned protective spells could be _over_-protective …  In his desire to keep them safe, Dumbledore had shielded his students from hard truths that would become all too necessary knowledge in the dark days ahead.

At last, something Viktor knew – some strength he possessed, something he could teach her.  He could teach her not to be afraid … and she could teach him something of fearlessness too.  Already he had reached out and touched that which he held dear.  Already he had spoken without stammering.

"Things haff changed, yes – perhaps the whole vorld," he said, drawing closer to her still; "but I haff not … and …"  His tongue nearly tripped, but taking a deep breath he spoke on as calmly as he could; "… and the vay I feel for you has not." 

Hermione blushed prettily and dropped her gaze to the ground.  As much as he treasured her shy expression of pleasure – for yes, he felt certain now that what he had said had pleased her – he did not wish to make her uncomfortable, or to allow hope to make him bold or stupid.  For a moment, he pressed her hand; but then he let it go and took a reluctant step back.  "I vould still like for you to visit me this summer," he ventured, "if you vould like to come."

"I … I don't know," she said, twisting her fingers together.  "There's so much I'll have to explain to my family ..."  She cast him an apologetic glance.  "It's not that I … I mean, I _would _like to, it's just …"

He nodded.  "I understand."  Or at least he could try to.  "The summer is long – you don't haff to answer now."   He was somewhat disappointed – but he reminded himself that she too was new at the game of hearts, and that there was much, much more than distance that separated them.

Not that he didn't intend to try to bridge that distance.  Not that he hadn't already applied to Headmaster Dumbledore for special admission to Hogwarts – an independent study of some sort …

He wouldn't tell Hermione that, though.  Not just yet.

"Then I vill write to you, if you vill permit me," he continued.

"Yes," she said quickly, "I'd like that."

A silent moment passed, and finally he captured her eyes with his.  "And you vill think – about my invitation?"  

"Yes," she whispered; and this time, she did not look away.


End file.
